


heaven sent a hurricane (but i don't even run from rain)

by alyciaclebnam



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 21:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11655408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyciaclebnam/pseuds/alyciaclebnam
Summary: Clarke Griffin is an assistant art gallery curator by day, and a purveyor of vigilante justice by night. After her team fumbles a job and sets off a security alarm, she makes a break for the getaway car and jumps in.Only it’s not the right car. Instead of Octavia's familiar blue-green eyes and sharp jawline, she comes face-to-face with the mesmerising green eyes and soft features of a woman she doesn't know. She's pretty as hell though, and that makes Clarke feel bold enough to take a chance."Can you drive?"





	heaven sent a hurricane (but i don't even run from rain)

For the first time in her short-lived career as a vigilante, Clarke freezes. The blaring security alarm presses in on her left eardrum, though she barely registers it. She wants to ask her team what’s happening, but her throat closes up and her mouth suddenly feels dry. Raven’s shouting is the only thing that manages to cut through the haze that has swiftly enveloped her mind, ringing sharply in Clarke’s right ear.

_“Clarke! Police are en route, five minutes until they reach the building. It takes two-and-a-half minutes to get from the head office to the ground floor via the internal fire stairs, and twenty-five seconds to get to the car. Why aren’t you running like hell?!”_

That jolts her into action. She drops the folder she’d been examining back into the filing cabinet, pushes the drawer closed, and heads for the door. She flicks the light switch off and pulls the office door shut, all the while going through a mental checklist to make sure she didn’t leave anything incriminating behind; there’s no point running from the scene of the crime if she gives the police a rope that will lead straight back to her. She hurriedly crosses the reception area outside the head office and throws her weight at the crash bar of the emergency exit door, then nearly tumbles down the concrete stairs when she manages to push through.

Ten steps down, pivot to the left, ten steps down, pivot to the left.

Clarke almost cries when she reaches the final landing; cardio has never been high on her to-do list, and her thighs are already aching. She pushes the ground floor exit door open with a groan, but falters when she is met with two black sedans on the empty street, parked at either end of the block. They both look the same in the darkness, and she can’t pick out which one is Octavia’s car.

A light flickers on inside one of them, and Clarke doesn’t spare it a second thought. She runs towards it, mentally chastising herself for being so unfit.

_“Wait, Clarke, what are you doing, that’s the-”_

Clarke scrambles at the passenger door handle until her sweaty fingers manage to catch it and pull, then she slides bonelessly into the seat.

_“-wrong car.”_

Clarke’s triumphant grin fades almost immediately. She blinks owlishly at the woman who is very much not Octavia – her gentle green eyes and soft features are at odds with Octavia’s sharp jawline and blue-green gaze – sitting in the driver’s seat and staring at her impassively. All the exhaustion from running down ten storeys’ worth of stairs evaporates instantly, her body and mind back on full alert.

“Fuck,” she says under her breath, though she knows Raven will hear. “I could-”

_“The police will be all over the block in less than sixty seconds,”_ Raven cuts in. _“You haven’t got time to run to Octavia’s car now. Just… sit tight, boss.”_

She doesn’t sound the least bit optimistic, and Clarke curses again. The other occupant of the vehicle then clears their throat, which prompts Clarke to look at the woman – really look at her – and her mouth dries out faster than it did when the security alarm began wailing.

“I believe you’re in the wrong vehicle,” the driver says, her muted voice at odds with the mesmerising intensity of her green eyes.

Clarke simply stares, too captivated by the woman’s beauty to fathom a reply. Her wavy brown hair is held back from her face by a set of intricate braids, and her full lips are pushed into a slight pout. Something warm blooms inside Clarke, somewhere low in her belly, and she’s too caught up in the feeling to realise that her unwavering gaze is bordering on creepy.

The only reason she snaps out of her interloper-induced daze is because Raven snorts loudly, and the static from the loud noise buzzes through her earpiece.

_“She’s really pretty, isn’t she?”_ Raven asks knowingly. She must interpret the ensuing silence as confirmation because she laughs and then, with fondness, says, _“Oh Clarke, you human disaster.”_

Clarke hears the faint sound of police sirens drifting through the quiet night, and belatedly realises that they will only grow louder with every second. She turns her attention to the beautiful stranger and makes a decision that she hopes she won’t regret.

“Can you drive?”

The woman raises a brow, looking somewhat offended by the question, and she says, “I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of this car. Does that not speak for itself?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Clarke says with a huff. She clarifies, “Can you drive me away from here?”

“I’m not an Uber driver,” the woman says bluntly. “There’s an app for that.”

Her tone isn’t cold, but it’s not exactly warm either. Clarke deliberates.

“I’ll pay you,” she asserts. Then she realises a flaw in her plan, but adjusts accordingly, “I don’t have any cash on me so we’ll have to drop by an ATM at some point, but I promise, I can give you however much you want-”

“I don’t want your money,” the woman interrupts. Clarke doesn’t know what to say to that, and fortunately she continues on, “I just want you to answer one question truthfully.”

Clarke wants to weigh her options, but time is against her, so she nods in assent.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” the stranger asks.

Clarke can’t tell whether her piercing green eyes are narrowed in scrutiny or out of mere curiosity, but she plunges ahead anyway.

“I need to get away from something,” she says simply.

The stranger looks unimpressed.

“What?” Clarke says defensively, when she catches the telltale red-and-blue lights flashing in the distance and the car remains firmly in park. “It’s the truth.”

“I want the _whole_ truth,” the stranger insists.

Clarke hesitates. She realises a second too late that it is the wrong move.

“The whole truth, or we’re not moving,” the stranger says blithely, with the air of someone who knows that they have already won the game.

Realising that this might be her only chance to get away with their failed attempt at vigilantism, Clarke admits defeat.

“Fine. I tried to rob some corrupt businessman’s office in the name of vigilante justice, but I accidentally tripped an alarm,” she confesses, albeit reluctantly. “See those police cars in the distance? They’re here for me, and I would really appreciate it if you gave me a lift. I don’t care where you take me; I just need to be far away from _here_.”

If the stranger is surprised by the sordid details, she doesn’t show it.

“Are you satisfied now?” Clarke asks after a few seconds, when the woman doesn’t comment on her story.

Clarke is thrown off by the roguish half-smile the stranger sends her way, the expression speaking for itself. She is all the more surprised when the woman reaches up to switch off the interior light and then starts the car.

“You’re actually going to drive me after what I just told you?” Clarke asks her incredulously.

“What can I say?” the stranger replies airily. “I was impressed by your honesty.”

The woman pulls out of the space perfectly and begins accelerating down the road, in the opposite direction from the police cars. She drives calmly – not a mile over the speed limit – and Clarke doesn’t want to push her luck, but the slow speed is making her antsy.

“Did you not hear that I’m trying to outrun the cops?” she says eventually, unable to rein in her impatience.

“Did you not think it would look suspicious if the police saw a car speeding away from the scene of an attempted robbery?” the stranger responds evenly.

The matter-of-fact comment takes the wind out of Clarke’s sails.

“Right. Well,” Clarke stammers. “Feel free to, uh, act accordingly then.”

_“Nice work,”_ Raven says with a snicker. _“I now understand why you’re so successful with the ladies.”_

Clarke jumps a little in her seat, having forgotten that the earpiece was still on. She discreetly brings her right hand to her ear to switch it off, disguising the movement by running her fingers through her hair. The stranger glances at her then, and Clarke hastens to make conversation.

She catches sight of a small golden token hanging from the rear view mirror. It looks something like a gear, twelve short spokes cutting through two concentric circles, with two of the spokes connecting from end-to-end and running through the middle.

“This thing looks cool,” Clarke comments, trying not to sound forced. “Did you make it yourself?”

“It was a gift,” the stranger replies.

Though her tone is light, Clarke notices how her posture straightens ever so slightly at the question.

“What does it mean?” Clarke enquires, now genuinely curious.

There is a pause during which Clarke thinks that she has pushed too far, but then the stranger speaks.

“It represents unity,” she says softly. “Each gear in a mechanism serves an individual purpose, but all contribute to the greater whole. Remove one gear, and the mechanism ceases to function properly.”

“Wow. That is…” Clarke bobs her head awkwardly as she flounders for words. “That’s really something,” she finishes lamely.

_You really have a way with words,_ she imagines Raven teasing her.

The stranger says nothing in response, and they continue the drive in silence. After some minutes, Clarke recognises that they are nearing the local police precinct, and frantically tries to think of a way to redirect their path.

“We’re getting kind of close to the precinct on 8th avenue, don’t you think?” Clarke says lightly, trying to disguise her growing unease.

“Don’t worry,” the stranger reassures her. “I know these streets well. We won’t go anywhere I don’t want to go.”

Clarke has nothing to say to that, so she just sinks lower in her seat and prays to a god that she has never wanted to believe in before. They turn a corner and the brick-walled precinct comes into sight, looming over the shadowy street like a spectre. Clarke panics when the car slows near the entrance to the police parking lot. She tries to surreptitiously open the passenger door, only to realise that it is either child-locked or locked by the driver’s side panel; whatever the case, she cannot disable the lock from her side of the car.

The woman doesn’t say a word as they pull into a space and she puts the car in park. She tugs the handbrake up, takes the key out of the ignition, and gets out of the car – all without a single glance in Clarke’s direction. Clarke tries one last time to pull at the handle, but it’s a half-hearted attempt; the door is still firmly locked.

The stranger walks around the front of the car to the passenger side and pulls open the door, before she promptly reaches in to wrap a cold metal handcuff around Clarke’s right wrist.

“What-”

The woman tugs until Clarke gets the memo and grudgingly gets out of the car. She curls and tightens the second cuff around Clarke’s left wrist as soon as it is in reach.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the stranger announces with a smirk. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

***

“Of all the cars, you just had to jump into an off-duty cop’s ride. You really do have the worst luck.”

“Raven,” Octavia chastises, nudging her with an elbow to the ribs. “Can’t you see Clarke’s been humiliated enough? She’s in a goddamn holding cell.”

“I shouldn’t have let you convince me to swap duties,” Clarke tells Octavia bluntly. She leans heavily against the far wall of the holding cell and sighs, “We both know you’re faster at pulling jobs than I am – that’s why you’re the errand girl and I’m the getaway driver. You get us in, I get us out.”

“I think you mean _I_ get us in and out,” Raven corrects, tapping thoughtfully at the bars separating Clarke from the rest of the world, like she’s trying to figure out if she can break through the metal. With Raven’s extensive research projects in countless fields of science and engineering, Clarke thinks she probably could. “This moonlighting vigilante business of ours would be nothing without my tech skills.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Not this time, according to the _prison_ _cell_ that I’m currently stuck in.”

Raven winces, and Clarke takes some small delight in her discomfort.

“What happened back there?” Clarke then asks, pushing off the wall and coming to stand closer to the cell door where her friends are huddled. “One second I was going through their paper files in peace, the next second the alarm was shrieking in my ear. Did I set off a delayed security measure or something when I swiped the duplicate card to get into the office?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It happened when I started hacking into their network to access the office computer,” Raven admits with a self-deprecating shrug. “The firewall looked the same as in our plans, which covered up the fact that they’d tweaked their system to trigger a logic bomb that would wipe all the files if anyone tried to open them outside of office hours. The bomb went off as soon as I clicked a file, then everything started deleting itself, which activated the security alarm. It was my fault, boss. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Octavia chimes in. “I just wanted to do something different for a change. Being errand girl becomes tedious after a while.”

Clarke huffs another weary breath, but ultimately waves off their apologies with a tight-lipped smile.

“Bygones,” she says. “But we’re definitely working on our technique once all of this blows over. We’ve been getting sloppy; I just hadn’t noticed until tonight.”

“You want to keep pulling jobs even after getting arrested?” Raven asks, surprise colouring her tone.

Clarke levels a pointed look at her. “You know I can’t stop. I have to do this.”

To her credit, Raven doesn’t bat an eyelid.

“And I had to do this,” she says, her voice growing thick with guilt. “I’m sorry. Again.”

“What are you talking-” Clarke begins confusedly, but she sees the source of Raven’s remorse walking down the short hall connecting the bullpen to the holding cells, a police officer on her heels. She rounds on Raven, irritation written all over her face, “You called my _mom_?”

Abby Griffin approaches in dark blue scrubs and white lab coat, the only ensemble that Clarke has seen her mother wear in recent years. She closes her eyes, wishing that the ground would just swallow her whole.

“It was the only thing I could think of to get you out of here,” she hears Raven explain apologetically, before Octavia urges her to be quiet.

The sound of footsteps on cement draws nearer and then stops. Clarke awaits the impending storm.

Her mother does not disappoint.

“Clarke Abigail Griffin-”

Clarke reaches out and clenches her fists around the metal bars, drawing close enough to Abby that she could whisper and her mother would still catch every word.

“I still cannot believe you gave your own name as my middle name,” Clarke taunts. Every muscle in her body feels tense, like always when she’s around her mother. “Conceited much?”

Abby doesn’t acknowledge the jibe. Her voice remains detached and clinical, the way she would speak to a patient, but Clarke almost smiles at the way she crosses her arms defensively. The police officer stands unobtrusively to the side, seemingly unsure about whether he should intervene or just let things play out.

“The maximum penalty for breaking and entering is a _life sentence_ -”

Clarke scoffs, “Come on, we both know the charge wouldn’t have been that bad. The place wasn’t occupied, I didn’t hurt anyone, and I didn’t even manage to steal anything. I’d probably only get community service.”

Abby ignores that comment too, continuing on, “If we didn’t know the police captain personally then you would be rotting in prison for the rest of your life, just like-”

“Don’t you dare,” Clarke seethes, her voice dropping low and dripping with venom. “You lost the right to talk about dad when you stopped fighting for his freedom.”

Abby’s unflappable façade slips, only for a moment, but Clarke notices.

“You know I never meant-” she tries, but Clarke shakes her head and cuts her off.

“Stop trying to make things right between us,” Clarke says tiredly, loosening her hold on the bars and taking a step back. “Just flaunt your social status and get me out of here so I can go back to ignoring you, and you can go back to pretending that nothing is ever wrong in this family.”

Abby finally quiets. She steps aside and gestures at the police officer to unlock the cell. He scrambles forward, ostensibly glad that their family dispute has resolved itself, and proceeds with his job.

“Sergeant Woods wants to have a word before you leave,” he informs Clarke once she steps out of the cell. “If you wouldn’t mind following me to her desk?”

His words are phrased like a question, but Clarke can tell that it is not a request. She acquiesces, but asks him to wait one moment.

She turns to her mother and says, dismissively, “You can go now.”

“Clarke-” Abby begins, reaching a hand out; whether to circle her wrist or throttle her neck, Clarke doesn’t know.

“I can handle it from here,” she says curtly, sidestepping the movement and ignoring the way Abby’s face falls. “I’m sure you’re needed back at Polis General, anyway. Sorry to have torn you away from the hospital.”

Abby looks like she wants to argue, but she ultimately relents. Clarke waits for her to start walking back down the hallway before she addresses Octavia and Raven, who are both lingering discreetly behind the police officer.

“We’ll be outside waiting for you?” Octavia offers, and Clarke nods gratefully.

“Sorry again,” Raven whispers to Clarke as she and Octavia pass her on the way out. “It was the only way we could come in and see you, and also get you out.”

“I get it,” Clarke says with a shrug. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly.”

When her friends round the corner, Clarke turns to the officer.

“I’m sorry you were forced to witness that, officer-” she glances down at his name badge. “-Ryder. My mother and I don’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of things.”

He accepts the apology with a nod, “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

“So, this officer Woods who wants to talk to me,” Clarke says, her brows furrowing slightly. “Can I ask why?

“Sergeant Woods,” he corrects, and begins leading them down the hallway. “And I’m not sure why; she didn’t give any details.”

They emerge into the bullpen, and Clarke follows Ryder to a dull-grey laminate desk in the back corner. It faces outward, offering a perfect view of the rest of the room.

“Take a seat,” he says, gesturing to the office chair tucked under the desk. “Sergeant Woods will be with you soon.”

When Ryder leaves, Clarke rolls the chair out from beneath the desk and perches lightly on the very edge. She does a quick surveillance check – only two officers occupying nearby desks, both facing away from her – before pulling open the first drawer in the desk unit.

Clarke has never been one to stifle her curiosity, after all.

She immediately spots a Polis Police Sergeant badge, and a personalised leather protector for a pocket notebook bearing the name Alexandria Woods. There is nothing else in the top drawer besides a display folder filled with copies of blank paperwork.

Clarke moves on to the second drawer, only to find that it is locked. She scans the room again – neither of the nearby officers has moved, and no one is coming in her direction – before examining the items on top of the desk.

The computer on the left side of the desk is switched off. The keyboard is positioned perfectly in the centre beneath the monitor, and the mouse rests squarely on the plain black mousepad. The pens and pencils are similarly neat in their positions, contained in a mesh pen cup behind and slightly to the right of the mousepad. The only things sitting askew are the legal pad and pen on the right side of the desk. Based on what she’s seen, Clarke imagines that the seemingly careless placement was a deliberate choice.

She looks around the room again – no one is heading her way – before picking up the pen. The drawing takes shape without her even thinking about it; the golden gear hanging from the beautiful-stranger-slash-off-duty-police-woman’s rear view mirror slowly comes to life beneath her fingers.

Just as she is tidying up some of her line work, a shadow falls over the paper. Clarke drops the pen and looks up. The stranger – Sergeant Alexandria Woods, Clarke now presumes – glances at the drawing, but doesn’t comment. She is still dressed in her civilian clothes – a pair of dark skinny jeans tucked into brown Chelsea boots, and a powder blue dress shirt buttoned up to the collar.

“Your mother certainly has some sway,” Sergeant Woods says, leaning her hip against the side of the desk and looking down her nose at Clarke.

It’s an obvious power play, so Clarke pushes the chair further out and straightens her back. She swears Sergeant Woods almost smiles at the movement.

“Captain Kane said we’re letting you go,” the woman continues nonchalantly. “All charges dropped, and not a mark on your permanent record. Just a warning.”

With this new frontal view in the bright precinct lights, rather than the side view in the dim interior car lighting, Clarke realises that Sergeant Woods is a lot more attractive than she initially thought.

(And Clarke thought she was very, very attractive.)

“Marcus Kane is a family friend,” Clarke discloses, trying hard not to let her gaze drift from the woman’s eyes to her lips.

But then Sergeant Woods offers a wry smile, which Clarke can’t help but glance at, because she is only human.

“Nepotism is generally frowned upon,” Sergeant Woods says sardonically, but then the corners of her mouth turn up a fraction of an inch and Clarke realises that she has definitely been caught staring.

She decides to just roll with it.

“If you’re so concerned about that, you could put me back in those cuffs,” Clarke says coquettishly, looking up at the woman through her lashes.

Sergeant Woods rolls her eyes and straightens up, leaning away from Clarke, but the slight pinking at the tips of her ears tells a different story.

“Just go, before I arrest you again,” she insists, nudging the toe of her boot at the bottom of the office chair.

Clarke can’t help herself. She rises slowly, taking time to readjust her shirt so that the hemline rides slightly lower than usual.

“What are you going to arrest me for?” she asks teasingly, pleased to note how Sergeant Woods is very strictly keeping her gaze pointed somewhere above her head. It makes her feel giddy. “Being too distracting?”

Sergeant Woods makes pointed eye contact with Clarke as she says, “No. For getting on my nerves.”

Clarke hums, not believing her at all. “Goodbye, Alexandria.”

“Sergeant Woods,” the woman corrects.

Clarke just winks and says, “Sure. I can appreciate a little role-play.”

She relishes the way Sergeant Woods’ ears grow that much more pink.

“Griffin. Seriously, go. And don’t forget this,” Sergeant Woods holds out the earpiece, which she had been stripped of when they searched her.

Clarke accepts it with a smile. “I’ll see you around, sergeant.”

“For some reason, I don’t doubt that,” is Sergeant Woods’ last reply before Clarke finally leaves the precinct.

***

“In honour of our failure,” Raven announces, raising her third drink – a half-full lowball glass of whiskey neat, because she’s apparently not fucking around tonight.

Clarke, on the other hand, has been nursing a vodka soda for the last thirty minutes. She re-examines the plans from their unsuccessful job with a sigh, before downing the rest of her now-lukewarm drink. Octavia comes back from the kitchen with another bottle of beer, and sits down on the couch next to her.

“We’ll do better next time,” she promises Clarke.

Octavia sets her beer on a coaster – a habit instilled into both her and Raven from living with Clarke (and Clarke’s aversion to water rings on their shared furniture) – and takes the plans into her own hands, shuffles them into a haphazard pile, then pushes them to the other side of the table. Raven, who is lazing on the recliner kitty-corner to them, knocks the pile to the floor with her foot.

“We can’t fix the past, but we can prepare for the future,” Raven proclaims. From the volume of her voice, Clarke assumes that she is well on her way to having a hangover tomorrow morning. “Am I right, or am I right, ladies?”

Clarke rolls her eyes good-naturedly at her friend. “Yeah, Raven, you’re right. Do you have any ideas about our next target?”

Raven sits up at the question, and her drink sloshes so violently in her glass that Clarke winces. She had trouble getting the last whiskey stain out of the cream-coloured carpet, and she doesn’t want a repeat experience.

“What about Emerson Enterprises?” Raven asks, suddenly sounding so serious that Clarke might think she was completely sober, if she hadn’t personally witnessed the four fingers of whiskey that Raven had swigged earlier. “I have intel that the CEO is extorting funds from innocent people trying to buy their first homes.”

“What a jerk,” Octavia mutters, then picks up her beer and takes a sip. “Sounds right up our alley though. Do we know how many people have lost money to Emerson?”

“I don’t have exact numbers,” Raven says, pushing the leg-rest of the recliner back in until it clicks. She sits up properly, cradling her glass in both hands. “Do you remember my last group home? The one I was in before I aged out of the foster system.”

Clarke and Octavia exchange concerned looks. Raven rarely talks about her checkered past, much less brings up the topic herself.

“You said it was the only group home you ever liked,” Octavia says cautiously. “What was his name, the guy that ran the place?”

“Sinclair,” Clarke supplies. She tilts her head at Raven, “I met him at one of your many graduation ceremonies. He seemed nice.”

“I spent eighteen years of my life in the system, and he was the only genuine person I ever met. I’ve stayed in contact with him over the years, since he was, y’know…” Raven sweeps a hand through her dark brown hair in an obvious attempt at indifference. “The closest I came to having a loving father.”

Clarke and Octavia share another glance, which Raven catches this time.

“Don’t worry,” she assures them. “I’m over the whole sad-orphan-childhood thing. I have you guys now. You’re my forever family.”

Clarke and Octavia trade playfully coy looks, which makes Raven roll her eyes.

“I’m also apparently drunk enough that I don’t cringe every time I imply that I have human feelings,” Raven concedes, and her brash honesty makes Clarke chuckle. “Anyway. Sinclair said that the board of directors was in talks with a company to privatise the old group home, to transfer control from the state government to some guys called the Alpha Adoption Agency. He knew that their funding would drop once that happened though, and there would be virtually no monitoring systems in place when the government gave up control.”

“Everyone knows that things are bad enough for foster kids in the public system; privatisation just means that the government is no longer liable, and kids can’t lean on them for support when shit hits the fan – which it inevitably does, because this is the United States of America,” Raven adds with a derisive scoff.

Octavia raises her drink at that, and Raven lifts hers in kind. They both frown when they realise that Clarke’s glass is empty.

“Story time is officially on pause until your glass has enough vodka to kill a small child,” Raven admonishes. “Go on, the Absolut bottle is calling your name.”

Clarke groans, but she rises without further complaint. She pads into the kitchen on socked feet, staying wide of the questionable puddle by the fridge – which she assumes is Raven’s doing, because it usually is – and makes another vodka soda. When she comes back to the living room, Raven requests a sip of her drink. Clarke refrains from rolling her eyes, and obliges her.

Once she’s satisfied that Clarke isn’t just drinking lemonade, Raven leans back into the recliner with a hum. “Where was I?”

“Calling out the United States government for being negligent,” Octavia prompts, and they all raise their glasses again.

“Okay, so, Sinclair wanted to buy his own place and start an independent foster home, because he wanted to be able to call the shots and make sure every kid was properly cared for. He isn’t the richest guy in the world, so he went looking for a good deal on a decent house. That’s when Emerson Enterprises swooped in,” Raven explains, pausing to take a sip of whiskey. “They offered him a house – big enough to support at least a dozen kids – on a lease-to-own basis, where they lease you the property for a set time period before you get the chance to buy it. He was doing well for a while, but then he fell behind on one rent payment, just before the lease period was over.”

“Did he lose the house?” Octavia asks, her blue-green eyes swimming with concern.

“Sinclair is the type of guy who protects his own; he wasn’t going to let anything bad happen to those kids on his watch,” Raven answers easily, her voice tinged with pride. “Even when Emerson extorted him for the rent money by threatening to kick all of them out, and then inflated the price of the property beyond the original deal, Sinclair didn’t back down. He just took out a loan to make the last rent payment, then applied for a mortgage to buy the house. The son of a bitch managed to keep all the kids off the street through sheer force of will.”

“Now I know where your attitude comes from,” Clarke chuckles. Raven shrugs, not making any attempt to deny it. “And don’t get me wrong – I’m sympathetic to the situation – but why didn’t Sinclair just go to the police?”

“That one’s on Sinclair,” Raven admits, crinkling her nose in distaste. “He didn’t realise the contract he signed was a lease-purchase agreement, not a lease-option agreement – the lease-purchase agreement meant that he _had_ to buy the property after the lease period; he wasn’t given any option to purchase it. Emerson Enterprises had complete control over the deal, according to the fine print. But of course, Sinclair couldn’t just let them take the kids’ home. And now I want to take Emerson down, for wronging the only person who ever actually cared about me when I was a kid.”

Clarke can’t disagree with that, so she asks, “What’s the plan?”

Raven smirks. “Where’s my laptop?”

***

“I’ve accessed Emerson’s intranet system – their firewall looked like it belonged in the 80s, so it was the easiest hack ever – but nothing has been uploaded onto their computers aside from employee timesheets and client schedules… which means that everything else is probably recorded using paper documents,” Raven says, her eyes scanning the laptop screen so fast that they are just two beady little blurs. “And I’m sure you can guess what that means.”

Octavia splutters on the swig of beer that she’d just tipped into her mouth.

“You guys are finally joining me in the field again! It’s been so long since I had partners on the job,” she exclaims, legs bouncing excitedly. Raven looks like she wants to object to the last statement, so Octavia adds, “Talking in my ear doesn’t count. Neither does driving us home afterwards.”

Raven scrunches her nose. “Manually searching through physical files for incriminating evidence isn’t my idea of fun, O. If it ain’t tech-”

“-I ain’t got respect,” Clarke and Octavia finish. “We know.”

“I’m glad we could come to an agreement,” Raven says cheerfully. “So does that mean I can tag someone else in? Perhaps a certain someone who likes reading tomes about people who died thousands of years ago and have no bearing on our lives whatsoever? A person who’s really good at comprehending the written word, particularly when it makes little sense to the population at large? A well-read individual that might be helpful when it comes to skimming text and finding the important parts, therefore making our job much easier?”

Octavia’s face twists into a sour expression. “You sound like his personal cheerleader. If you wanted to call my brother, all you had to do was ask.”

“I thought you and I were past that,” Raven says, setting her laptop onto the coffee table with a pout.

Octavia softens at the expression. Clarke busies herself with her drink.

“We’re past it, I promise,” Octavia says to Raven. “It’s just kinda gross thinking about my big brother hooking up with one of my best friends.”

“Bellamy and I both acknowledge that we were a one time thing. You don’t have to worry about it happening ever again,” Raven assures her.

“Oh, I don’t care that it happened, or even if it happens again,” Octavia says, shaking her head. “I just don’t want it to happen in my own living room, when I’m sleeping ten feet away… because when I wake up, I don’t want to have to wait for you two to finish so I can walk through to the kitchen to make coffee,” she wrinkles her nose in disgust. “I’d just like to be able to go through my morning routine without having to bleach my eyes afterward, really.”

“I’m sorry, okay? We were both too drunk to make it back to my room, and one of us – I can’t remember which – decided the couch would make do,” Raven argues, but only half-heartedly. She adds, “Just for the record, I’m pretty sure it was Bellamy.”

“Better you than me,” Clarke says with a wry smile, tipping her head at Octavia. “My room is right next to Raven’s. If they’d come back there, I would have heard everything. You know how thin these walls are.”

“Okay, whatever, can we move on from the fact that they had sex?” Octavia says with a grimace, and then takes a long pull from her beer bottle. “Do we all agree on Bellamy being Raven’s replacement for the Emerson job?”

Raven nods. “Besides, you know he loves it when we let him in on a job. He finally gets a chance to sit at the cool kids’ table.”

“If Bell wanted any chance to sit with the cool kids, he shouldn’t have become a history teacher,” Octavia jokes lightly.

Clarke realises the territory that they are entering – trading an endless amount of teasing jabs about Bellamy and his life choices – so she quickly offers to call Octavia’s brother and tell him about the Emerson job. She pulls her phone out, but pauses before she hits Bellamy’s name.

“Hey Raven, while I fill Bell in on the details, do you mind hacking into the police precinct on 8th avenue and downloading their employee schedule?”

***

Carl Emerson’s office is bland, to say the least. The plaster walls are yellowed with age, and the unflattering bright white ceiling light draws attention to not only that, but also the cracks zigzagging upward from the ground. There has been some attempt to cover one of the growing fissures with a plastic pot plant, but the fake greenery has collected a thick layer of dust that makes Clarke’s sinuses throb unpleasantly. A heavy wooden desk sits in the middle of the room, with a high-backed office chair behind and two antiquated upholstered armchairs in front. Filing cabinets line the walls either side of the desk; a handful of drawers sit half-open, their contents strewn across the cabinet-tops.

Clarke and Bellamy sort through the mountains of paperwork while Octavia handles any incriminating documents that they find. The work proves slow but steady. Clarke and Bellamy operate in companionable silence, and Octavia’s efforts are made known through the consistent sound of tape being pulled and torn from the dispenser.

Bellamy eventually closes the last half-open drawer with a resolute clang, and Clarke slumps against the filing cabinet with a sigh. Octavia quietly deals with the last few compromising documents, giving the two some time to rest their eyes.

“That’s all of them,” she announces a few moments and pieces of tape later, stepping back and admiring their handiwork. She addresses Bellamy and Clarke, “Ready to get out of here? Emerson’s office smells like someone’s been living in it for years and never cracked a window.”

Raven’s voice trickles through their earpieces after a solid hour of radio silence, having gone and done her own thing while they dealt with the paperwork, _“Let me know when you’re ready to leave and I’ll start looping the CCTV camera footage, so you can get back through-”_

“Wait, there’s one last thing,” Clarke interrupts, reaching into the back pocket of her pants. “I wanted to leave this…”

She pulls out a small square of paper and asks someone to grab the tape dispenser.

“You’re leaving calling cards now?” Bellamy asks quizzically, ignoring the request for tape and plucking the paper from Clarke’s hands, so he can examine the hand-drawn symbol that decorates one side. “I thought the whole point of this business was to remain anonymous.”

Octavia raises an eyebrow at that, and walks over to take a look at the paper.

_“I don’t have eyes, what is Bell talking about?”_ Raven questions.

“Clarke’s got some drawing that she wants to leave with Emerson’s documents,” Octavia informs her, smiling impishly. “I don’t know what the symbol means, but I’m guessing it’s not for the entire Polis Police Force to find.”

With that sly comment and Raven’s bark of laughter, Bellamy seems to finally understand the ploy, and he directs an incredulous look at Clarke.

“If you’re trying to _not_ get caught doing these illegal jobs, I don’t think flirting with a police officer through cutesy pictures is the way to go,” he says dryly.

“She’s not a police officer,” Clarke says smoothly. She steps around the Blake siblings to grab the tape dispenser herself and adds, “She’s a police _sergeant_.”

_“That’s why you asked me to hack into the precinct and download their schedule?”_ Raven guffaws loudly enough that Clarke has to pull her earpiece out slightly. _“So you could time this job right and send notes to a girl you have a crush on, like you’re in tenth grade?”_

“I’ll admit that it’s a cute idea,” Octavia shrugs, watching as Clarke tears off a piece of tape and carefully positions the drawing amongst the other papers on the window. “I would probably be into it if a guy sent me love notes.”

“I appreciate you so much,” Clarke tells her sincerely, running a gloved finger over the tape to make sure the drawing sticks. “Now can we stop making fun of my love life and finish this job? I have the morning shift for my day job in-” she flicks her forearm up to check her beaten-up wristwatch, “-six hours, and I want to get as much REM sleep as I can.”

_“Loud and clear, boss. I’ll jumpstart the exit procedures,”_ Raven declares, and Clarke can imagine that the words are accompanied by a mocking salute. _“Okay. You’ve got five minutes until the hallway and lobby CCTV footage starts recording real-time again, and the exit door security alarms re-engage.”_

“Raven, you know that’s not what I meant,” Clarke groans, backtracking around the room to make sure nothing has been left behind.

Nothing that they don’t want the police to find, at least.

“It takes three-and-a-half minutes to get out of here, right?” Bellamy double-checks as he counts the individual lockpicks in his leather case before pocketing them.

_“Fifteen seconds to get to the main stairwell, two-and-a-half minutes to the ground floor, twenty seconds across the lobby to reach the alleyway exit, and twenty-five seconds to run to the car,”_ Raven confirms.

“I’m going to kill you,” Clarke mutters darkly. She waves the Blakes towards the door, satisfied that they are clear to abscond, “Come on. Let’s leave this place to the authorities.”

Octavia takes the lead, running out of the room light-footed as ever. Bellamy trails after her, only a few paces behind. Clarke does a last visual sweep of the room, and then takes off after them into the stairwell.

“Raven,” she says breathlessly, as their footsteps echo loudly off the cement walls. “Time check.”

_“Two-point-five minutes until CCTV cameras and security alarms are back on.”_

Clarke curses, but she powers through. The three accomplices soon fly out of the stairwell onto the ground floor lobby, vaulting over the reception desk and through the alleyway exit to hit the pavement at full speed. Clarke jams a hand in her pocket to find the car keys, fumbling for the unlock button as they reach her dark blue Accord. She slides into the driver’s seat while Octavia gets in the passenger side, her usual spot, and Bellamy is relegated to the backseat. Her sweaty fingers manage to slip the key into the ignition and start the car, and then they’re off.

“Raven,” Clarke says a few moments later, her breath still evening out after their frantic run. “We’re two blocks out. Do your thing.”

The proud smirk on Raven’s face is practically palpable, even over the comms.

_“Gaining remote access to the automatic entrance door and… boom!”_ Raven whoops victoriously. _“Security alarm activated. Police have been alerted; they’re sending a squad car out now.”_

Bellamy ruffles his sister’s hair playfully, until Octavia growls at him. He claps the back of their chairs then, and starts going over the events of the job excitedly; out of the corner of her eye, Clarke sees Octavia’s shoulders finally relax as she converses with Bellamy, happy to have completed their mission successfully.

“We’ve done our part,” Clarke announces with a tired but contented smile. The Blakes are still absorbed in their discussion of the minutiae of the job, but she knows Raven is listening, omnipresent as always when they’re working. “Let’s hope the police do theirs.”

***

_“You are receiving a collect call from Mount Weather Penitentiary. Press one to accept this call. Press two to-”_

Clarke presses one on the number pad of the cordless house phone and sinks heavily into the couch.

“Hey dad,” she says through a yawn, when the call eventually connects.

_“Hey kiddo,”_ Jake greets, his voice warm. _“Is this a good time? You sound tired.”_

“I’m fine,” Clarke assures him. Octavia pops her head out of the kitchen, a teabag hanging from one hand and her eyebrows raised questioningly. Clarke nods at her, explaining to her father, “I went to bed late last night, and I had the early shift at the gallery today. Not the best combination. But don’t worry; I’m never too tired to talk to you.”

_“Flatterer,”_ Jake chuckles, and the sound makes Clarke wistful. _“How are things at the art gallery, anyway? Knowing your work ethic, I daresay you deserve a promotion. I bet that Finn Collins has given you a raise or something.”_

“I was promoted from receptionist to assistant curator last year; the only way Finn could give me another promotion is to step down from his position as chief curator and director, and give me the job instead,” she says dryly. “Which would probably be a controversial move, since he’s the Collins in _Collins Collection_.”

Jake hums. _“I do think_ Clarke’s Collection _would sound better.”_

Clarke wrinkles her nose at first, but it smooths out into a reluctant smile. “You’re such a dad. Of course you would like that.”

_“I can’t wait for you to open your own gallery one day. I’m sure it’ll be great,”_ Jake says eagerly, and Clarke bites her lip to stifle a heavy sigh; even if she were to start her own gallery, her dad would never be able to see it. _“Speaking of businesses, how’s that side business you’re running with Raven and Octavia? You said something about creating a startup to ‘kick ass and take names’ in pursuit of justice, if I recall correctly, but you haven’t mentioned it in any of our recent conversations.”_

Clarke laughs lightly, “It’s going pretty well. We had a slight hiccup the other week,” she says, opting for a variation of the truth. “But everything has been smooth sailing since then. You didn’t call me just to talk about work though, did you?”

_“’Course not, hon,”_ her dad says cheerfully. Clarke hears some sort of commotion in the background – there’s at least two raised voices and the clanging of metal on metal – and goes to ask what’s happening, but Jake speaks before she can get a word out, _“Are the girls home too? I wouldn’t mind talking to my other kids, Raven Griffin-Reyes and Octavia Griffin-Blake.”_

As if on cue, Octavia comes out of the kitchen with two steaming mugs of tea. Clarke rolls her eyes light-heartedly, despite the fact that her dad won’t see the action, and presses speaker on the handset.

“Reyes! Family meeting!” Clarke calls out to the house at large, and sets the phone on the coffee table. She nods her thanks to Octavia when the other girl hands her a warm mug. To her father, she adds, “Dad, you’re on speaker now.”

“Hey Mr Griffin,” Octavia greets happily, settling onto the recliner with her mug. “It’s good to hear from you.”

_“I could say the same to you, Miss Blake,”_ Clarke’s dad replies courteously. _“How’s your brother?”_

Octavia hums around a mouthful of tea. “Bellamy is alright. Still a huge nerd, unfortunately.”

A body then comes careening out of the hallway, and Clarke hastily puts her mug down on a coaster before Raven drops solidly onto the couch.

“Sup Daddy Griffin?” she greets exuberantly, the picture of indelicacy.

Jake sucks in a breath and says, very seriously, _“Prison really changes your perspective on the word ‘daddy’ so… I hope you girls understand why I’m vetoing that name.”_

Raven and Octavia laugh loudly at that, and Clarke can’t help a chuckle from escaping. She really does love her makeshift family.

***

Clarke lingers outside the 8th avenue precinct, leaning casually against a lamppost as she waits for her mark to arrive. When she spots a long-haired brunette approaching from the parking lot around the side of the building, she straightens.

Her stomach is turning itself into knots, but she tries not to focus on it. She’d taken a different route to work – a much longer and indirect route – just for this opportunity, and she refuses to psych herself out.

Sergeant Woods slows outside the precinct door when she catches sight of Clarke.

“What are you doing here?” the woman asks, brows furrowed slightly.

Clarke’s heart jumps into her throat.

“I was just walking through the neighbourhood on my way to work,” she says with a forced shrug. It’s technically true, she tells herself.

As expected, Sergeant Woods doesn’t look convinced. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Carl Emerson, CEO of Emerson Enterprises, would you?”

_Not a fan of small talk, I see_ , Clarke thinks wryly.

She feigns ignorance, “No, who is he?”

Sergeant Woods looks like she has half a mind to arrest her – probably for being an obstruction of justice or something – but she simply closes her eyes for a moment and then continues on. Clarke commends her patience.

“We got a call a few days ago from the response centre of his security company. They informed us that the alarm at his building had been tripped at around 2am,” Sergeant Woods explains, not mincing her words. “When we arrived, we found documents plastered all over the office window proving that Emerson Enterprises had been threatening clients to pay more money than their original agreements, which went straight into the bank accounts of two individuals,” she pauses here, examining Clarke’s face curiously, and then continues, “Carl Emerson and one of his accountants, Lorelei Tsing, are going to jail for extortion and embezzlement.”

Clarke feels a sense of relief wash over her; she knows Raven will be pleased with the results of their job.

“That sucks for them,” she says, trying to inject as much indifference into her tone as possible, despite how elated she feels inside. “But I guess they deserve it for swindling all those innocent people. I don’t know what that has to do with me though.”

Sergeant Woods unbuttons one of her front shirt pockets and pulls out a familiar square of paper. She holds it out for Clarke to examine, though Clarke suspects the action is just a formality.

“I found this while I was investigating Emerson’s office. Does it look familiar?”

Clarke pretends to think and then arch her eyebrows in recognition.

“That’s the gear thing hanging off your rear view mirror, isn’t it?” she says. Then, with a cheeky smile, “Whoever drew this certainly has an eye for detail.”

Sergeant Woods opens her mouth, presumably to ask her to stop talking shit – albeit in a more formal manner – but Clarke cuts her off.

“As much as I enjoy the view around these parts,” she looks pointedly at Sergeant Woods, standing tall in all black, her long-sleeve dress shirt, tie, and slacks all neatly pressed, and her hair tied back in a high ponytail. “I have to go, otherwise I’ll be late for work.”

This is a lie, of course; she is already ridiculously late for work, having taken such an extensive detour and waiting for so long, but she knows that Finn won’t mind covering for her.

“I’ll see you around?” Clarke offers, uncharacteristically hesitant.

Sergeant Woods gives her a blank look.

“That wasn’t a no,” Clarke teases, a hopeful half-smile coming to her lips. “So maybe you _do_ want to see me around?”

Sergeant Woods merely shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

“You’re trouble, Clarke Griffin,” she says. “And I’m going to figure you out.”

Clarke only smiles wider at that. “I’m rooting for you, Alexandria.”

“Sergeant Woods,” is the immediate response.

Clarke tilts her head slightly, and her smile dims. “You don’t like the name Alexandria?”

There’s a beat of silence. And then Sergeant Woods says, “You’re not going to let that one go, are you?”

“I feel like you already know the answer to that,” Clarke replies with another easy smile.

Sergeant Woods sighs, and Clarke mentally adds a tally mark under her own name.

“Only my family calls me Alexandria,” she says resignedly. “I prefer Lexa.”

_Lexa_ stands stock still after the admission, her green eyes looking expectantly at Clarke. It’s almost as if she is waiting for Clarke to playfully tease her, and Clarke bites her lip to keep from releasing an undignified squeal at how unwittingly adorable this woman is.

“It was a pleasure running into you, Lexa,” is all Clarke says before gently brushing past the sergeant, despite them having the entire sidewalk to themselves.

She catches the faint scent of clean linen with a hint of peach, and it lingers at the forefront of her mind for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup folks, it's been a while. this one has been on my to-do list for months, i hope you like it
> 
> p.s. i make no promises about scheduled updates bc i'm lazier than the way jason rothenberg wrote lexa and lincoln off the show, but i have ideas for a couple more chapters if people are interested :)

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think in the comments or on tumblr @ [alyciaclebnam](http://alyciaclebnam.tumblr.com/)


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